Unbreakable
by SuperKateB
Summary: When Minako is readying herself to leave for America and start her career as an idol, Usagi wanders across a scrapbook that brings to light Minako's greatest secret: her real past.
1. Pro: Journey to the Past

"People always say,   
  
'Life is full of choices.'  
  
No one ever mentions fear!  
  
Rr how a road can seem so long,  
  
Or how the world can seems so vast  
  
On this journey...to the past."  
  
- Anatasia, "Journey to the Past"  
  
===========  
  
Unbreakable  
  
A Sailor Moon Fanfiction  
  
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler  
  
Prologue: "Journey to the Past"  
  
===========  
  
The room, finally, was nearly empty.  
  
She surveyed her personal living space - the part of the house  
  
that had been declared hers and only hers since their first day there,  
  
nearly five years before - carefully, her baby blue eyes peering into   
  
every nook and cranny. The twin bookshelves, both white, stood empty on  
  
either side of the wall, looming over the equally-empty bedside tables.   
  
Her bed was neatly made, prepared for one last night of being slept in,  
  
but it seemed to stare forlornly up at her, begging for the return of  
  
the dozens of stuffed animals that had, for so long, taken up residence  
  
there. She sighed, straightening the red kerchief she had tied over  
  
her head of long blonde hair. Why did it have to be so hard?  
  
"Ara, Minako-chan, do you EVER clean out under your bed?"  
  
groaned a voice, and the blonde was pulled violently back to reality  
  
as her long-time friend sat up, stretching. Her joints popped audibly.  
  
"It's so dusty under here! You could have a few hundred yen on the floor  
  
and never know it, it's so dirty!"   
  
Aino Minako laughed and plopped down on the hardwood floor   
  
beside her odango-headed friend, surprised to see the other girl's   
  
normally jovial expression fade into one of abject sorrow. "I know that  
  
this job in California will be really good for you, Minako-chan," she  
  
admitted softly, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them,  
  
her eyes staring at the floor, "but it's really sad for you to move away.  
  
Mamo-chan's still off in America for university, and Ami-chan is talking  
  
more and more about going away to Kyoto to study... Everyone's moving  
  
away." She sniffled miserably. "I don't want you to go!"  
  
Before her friend could protest, Usagi launched forward and   
  
clung her around the neck, landing on her with such force that they   
  
both sprawled backwards across the floor. "Ara, Usagi-chan, it's okay!"  
  
protested Minako with a soft half-smile, moving a hand to smooth the hair  
  
of her now-crying companion. "I'll be back before you know it. The   
  
contract only lasts three years, and I really do want to stay in Japan  
  
with all of you. You'll hardly even - ano?"  
  
Usagi raised her head and slowly recoiled from her clinging,  
  
surprised to see the other blonde reaching far underneath the bed. Dust  
  
wafted up from the dirty floor as Minako groped about in the shadows.   
  
"What are you doing?" she questioned curiously, staring as her friend  
  
produced a dust-covered book from beneath the bed.   
  
The kerchief-headed girl took a deep breath and then exhaled,  
  
hard, onto the cover of the book, a cloud of dust filling the room as  
  
a worn brown cover was revealed under the layer of grime. "It's my   
  
old photo album!" exclaimed Minako after a moment of gazing blankly at  
  
the familiar-but-yet-foreign cover design - a large flower inset with  
  
gold foil. "Okaa-san gave this to me just before we moved back here when  
  
I was fourteen. I was very sad, and she wanted me to remember everything  
  
that had happened in England, and so she gave this to me. I guess it must  
  
have gotten shoved under my bed shortly after we moved here."  
  
"Sugoi..." Usagi sat up on her knees and peered at the album,  
  
her blue eyes watching intently as Minako opened the cover. Nimble fingers  
  
wiped the thin film of dust off the first page, revealing only two   
  
photographs on a page made for six. The first was of a young, petite   
  
blonde woman with wavy tresses and bright blue eyes, her arm looped   
  
inside that of a young man. Gray, stoic eyes stared out of the picture,  
  
his chiseled, handsome features set heavily in a non-smile. Sandy blonde  
  
hair hung slightly into his face, and he leaned slightly away from the  
  
woman. Behind them, a palace loomed, casting a dark shadow over the couple  
  
despite the charming smile of the young woman.  
  
The second picture's mood was entirely different. Here, the same  
  
young woman sat atop a picnic table in a tank top and shorts, her   
  
sunglasses resting on her head as she grinned into the camera, completely  
  
relaxed and happy. Beside her stood a slightly older man, his brown hair  
  
and well-kept goatee slightly spotted with gray, laugh lines creasing  
  
his face. But he was smiling just as brightly as the young woman,   
  
winking at the camera as his two large fingers formed "bunny ears" behind  
  
her head.  
  
Minako sighed, biting her lower lip as she stared down at the  
  
two photographs. She had nearly forgotten the emotions that they brought  
  
spiraling forth, the pain and the joy and -   
  
"Ano, who are they?" The question from her curious, odango-headed  
  
friend caught her off guard, and blue eyes blinked. "The woman, and the  
  
two men, I mean."  
  
"Oh, right." Minako laughed self-consciously, pointing quickly to  
  
the second of the two photos. "That's my mother, Aino Emi, when she was   
  
about my age," she explained, her fingernail landing directly on the   
  
forehead of the wavy-haired blonde. "She'd just moved to England for the   
  
first time. And this is Roger Hughes. Roger-chan, I as call him. He was   
  
her very first agent."  
  
Usagi's brow furrowed slightly and she frowned. "But then who's  
  
the other man?" she asked softly, pointing to the upper picture, the   
  
picture in shadow. Her frown deepened. "He kinda looks like you,   
  
actually," she added after a slight pause.   
  
Aino Minako closed the photo album quickly and turned her back to  
  
the other girl, rising to set it in one of the few still-opened boxes  
  
in the room. "His name is Eric MacLeod," she answered quietly, her voice  
  
quivering slightly. "I've only met him a few times, but everyone always  
  
told me that when I did meet him. 'Oh, Minako, you look so much like   
  
him!' Personally, I always thought that I looked like okaa-san, but..."  
  
"Minako?"  
  
She shoved the photo album down, grabbing the nearest item - a   
  
Sailor V doll that her mother had bought her the previous Christmas - and  
  
covering it. Now, suddenly, she realized exactly why the photo album was  
  
under the bed in the first place.  
  
"And it's natural that he'd look like me." Salt touched her lips,  
  
but she hardly cared. Her fingers gripped the edge of the box, white-  
  
knuckled. Angry. "He's my father."  
  
DISCLAIMER: Sailor Moon and all trappings thereof belong to Naoko   
  
Takeuchi. This particular storyline belongs to Kate Butler, (c) 2003-2004. 


	2. 1: Bravado

"And if the music stops,  
  
There's only the sound of the rain.  
  
All the hope and glory,  
  
All the sacrifice in vain.  
  
If love remains  
  
Though everything is lost,  
  
We will pay the price,  
  
But we will not count the cost."  
  
- Paradigm Blue, "Bravado"  
  
===========  
  
Unbreakable  
  
A Sailor Moon Fanfiction  
  
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler  
  
Chapter One: "Bravado"  
  
===========  
  
Despite the fact that it was raining, a dull, hazy drizzle spitting  
  
down out of dark, looming, heavy clouds, Aino Emi found herself smiling.  
  
She had smiled almost all of the day, actually. Since awaking   
  
to the crackling sound of the captain's announcement that they were   
  
cruising somewhere over Poland, she had been unable to contain her   
  
child-like mirth. Even as they hit a patch of terrible turbulence and  
  
the stewardesses all bustled about nervously, she grinned into the seat  
  
in front of her, her tray table supporting her drumming, impatient fingers.  
  
The baggage claim personnel had frowned at her heavily accented, broken  
  
English as she waved after them and called "Have a good day!", and her  
  
taxi driver asked her to repeat their destination at leave four times  
  
before understanding what she meant, but still, her legs bounced in  
  
uncontrollable excitement. And, even after her pockets were significantly  
  
lightened by the exorbitant cab fee and she was standing, in the rain,   
  
beneath the wide-mouthed, towering titan that was London's famous Ritz  
  
hotel, her face warmed with the light of a smile. She was just that happy.  
  
As she grasped the handle to her suitcase with a firm grip and   
  
began to pull it along the sodden green outdoor rug and into the hotel   
  
lobby, she realized that she should be at least a bit intimidated. The back  
  
of her mind implored her to be nervous rather than excited, but she was  
  
unable to heed the warning.  
  
Emi was, after all, no stranger to intimidation. Her recently-  
  
widowed school-teaching mother, Aino Natsumi, had sternly reminded her of  
  
this fact two evenings before as, together, they packed for the girl's  
  
three-week modeling stint in London, England.  
  
'And to think, that nasty Michiko was the one saying that you would  
  
never be half the model SHE is!' her mother chortled, folding her   
  
daughter's t-shirts with a tender, motherly care. The phone call that   
  
afternoon had brought wonderful news the one of the more senior models  
  
had fallen ill and needed a replacement sent to London to walk in her  
  
place. 'Kami-sama strike me down for ever speaking ill of another,   
  
especially an ailing young woman such as Michiko-chan, but you very nearly  
  
quit last year because of all the trouble she made for you, and now look!  
  
You're her replacement for the World Design Summit, and only at 17!' She  
  
dropped the laundry to grab her only child into a brief, tight hug. 'You  
  
make your old okaa-san so proud, Emi!'  
  
Sighing, the young blonde girl took all the talk of pride and the  
  
possessive cuddling patiently and with a grain of salt, focusing more   
  
attentively on gathering up her belongings than on her mother's endless  
  
ramblings. As rude and self-possessed as Hiro Michiko could be, she would  
  
never wish ill upon her, especially in the light of what had really   
  
happened. Her boss, the up-and-coming Tomizawa Ai, had told her a morsel  
  
of the story that she'd left out when relating the affair to her mother,   
  
and that was that Michiko, the popular idol-model, had not fallen ill at  
  
all but rather fallen pregnant. It appeared, at least to Tomizawa-sama,  
  
that the rumors were all true and Michiko had gotten into a torrid love  
  
affair with a man old enough to be her father. And now, with morning sickness  
  
raging and leaving her pale and over-tired, the senior model was out of the  
  
competition.  
  
Emi shuddered in anticipation as the gold-rimmed glass doors   
  
of the hotel slid shut behind her, closing her into the spacious posh  
  
lobby. Deep, rich colors - mostly dark crimsons and tawny browns -   
  
reflected on gleaming floor tiles, and soft strains of piano music touched  
  
her ears before fading off, replaced by the quiet whisper of a fountain.   
  
Green plants fought for prominence in planters surrounding the fountain and  
  
also surrounding the sitting area. The wheels of her suitcase clicked   
  
along the tiles as she neared the polished, red-brown countertop. A   
  
young man in a suit glanced questioningly at her as she approached, and  
  
she swallowed hard.   
  
Perhaps she was intimidated, after all.  
  
"May I help you?" questioned the man coolly, his accent unfamiliar  
  
and almost hard-to-understand in the ears of the Japanese girl. "Or are   
  
you, perhaps, lost?"  
  
Her cheeks burned as he said this, and suddenly, she was cognizant  
  
of her surroundings. Her blonde waves were heavy with rainwater, straggly  
  
and unkempt, and her chic navy raincoat hung open and untied, revealing  
  
her sloppy travel clothes of a sweater and blue jeans. Her grip on her   
  
suitcase tightened. "A-actually, I am here for the... Ara, the modeling  
  
summit..." The words were clumsy on her tongue, and the young man's dubious  
  
glance and cock of his eyebrow just further proved this as fact. "My name  
  
is Ai - Emi Aino. I am replacing Michiko. Uh..."   
  
Smiling indulgently, the young man leaned forward on his   
  
elbows. "I realize that you probably do want to be a model, miss," he   
  
replied, his tone one of a father speaking to his child. Emi scowled,  
  
wrinkling her petite nose. "But the design summit is a very serious event,  
  
and I'm afraid we can't just let little girls in. In fact - "  
  
"Terrence, thank goodness you found her!" Both the teen and the  
  
young man glanced up to see someone jogging down the hallway and in the  
  
direction of the lobby, waving frantically. He was an older man, perhaps  
  
in his mid- to late-thirties, and his chic business suit and clip-on   
  
name badge registered him as someone at least mildly important. "Ms.  
  
Tomizawa just realized about three minutes ago that Miss Aino would be   
  
arriving, and she's all tied up dealing with stage preparations." He   
  
was panting lightly by the time he reached the countertop, but that didn't  
  
stop him from offering a hand towards the girl. "Watashi no namae wa   
  
Roger Hughes desu," he introduced with a charming smile, his attempt at her  
  
familiar language heavy with his Anglicized mispronunciation. "Welcome to   
  
London."  
  
Emi stared blankly at his hand, taking it with some hesitation.  
  
"A-aino Emi desu," she responded softly, giving it a careful shake. "I am  
  
replacing Hiro Michiko in T - in Ms. Tomizawa's portion of the   
  
presentation." His navy blue eyes met hers without hesitation, and she  
  
couldn't help but smile back up at him as he squeezed her hand and then  
  
released it. With his neatly-trimmed, slightly-graying goatee, light laugh   
  
lines, and wide-mouthed grin, he reminded her of the father in an anime  
  
series she had once watched. "Thank you for coming to get me. I was   
  
afraid that I would be turned away."  
  
He chuckled, quickly switching from Japanese to English. "Terrence  
  
is trained to get rid of the troublemaking interlopers that try to poke   
  
around and get autographs of their favorite models," he teased, winking at   
  
the now-blushing young man behind the counter. "Don't take it personally."   
  
Before the blonde teen could protest, he reached down and helped himself to   
  
the handle of her bag, which had been ignored since their handshake. "Now,   
  
allow me to show you to your room. You can get washed up and then come down  
  
and talk to Ms. Tomizawa." She froze, staring at him as he started off   
  
towards the elevators with her suitcase, causing Roger to stop and, after a   
  
long moment, turn around and glance back at her. "Emi-san? Are you coming?"  
  
Smiling, she nodded and trotted up next to him, following him down  
  
the wide, crimson-carpeted hallway towards the elevators, all intimidation  
  
washed away and replaced, once again, by eagerness and joy.  
  
===  
  
Washing up proved harder than expected, and by time Emi had  
  
showered, dried her wavy mass of blonde tresses, and changed into something  
  
a bit more presentable to meet with Tomizawa-sama, an hour and a half had  
  
passed. The girl blamed it on the enormous hotel room she had been   
  
assigned. It was obvious that they had simply assigned her to the room   
  
originally reserved for Michiko, rather than reworking the room setup to   
  
couple her - the most junior model on the trip - with a more appropriate  
  
room. An enormous king-size bed stretched out against the far wall, its  
  
high pine bedposts stretching almost all the way to the ceiling before   
  
being topped with a white canopy. A small sitting area, complete with   
  
ornate, Victorian-era furniture, overtook one corner of the remaining area,  
  
and a bureau filled with snacks and a miniature refrigerator overtook   
  
another corner. A wooden door with a gold handle - completely different  
  
from the gray metal doors she was used to seeing at hotels - separated   
  
the bathroom from the rest of the space, and that bathroom was enormous.  
  
A full whirlpool bath with a dual-sink vanity and a separate little   
  
room for the toilet and a more practical, upright shower... She hardly   
  
knew what to do with herself! It was a room almost as big as the apartment  
  
she shared with her mother, and it was hers for a full three weeks?   
  
Emi smiled charmingly at the guests she passed in the main corridor  
  
of the hotel, her identification badge bobbing around her neck as she   
  
went. A few people - judging by their dress, they were well-to-do   
  
vacationers to the city - glanced wearily in her direction, uncertain   
  
what to think. The bright yellow badge never lied; the girl was a model.  
  
Somehow, the blonde remained oblivious to the sneers even as the guards  
  
outside the hotel's enormous ballroom double- and then triple-checked  
  
her name on the list before letting her in.   
  
"Left, Umi! No, your OTHER left!" Tomizawa Ai's figure loomed at   
  
the back of the ballroom's makeshift risers as she slammed her clipboard  
  
against a chair. Known for her ravenous, dog-eat-dog attitude and stunning  
  
beauty, she was an imposing woman in her late twenties, standing nearly   
  
six feet tall. Her long, dark ponytail bobbed as she glided down the   
  
steps on the risers and towards the young woman on the runway, who had   
  
frozen in her final pose. From her spot just inside the doorway, Emi   
  
recognized the short, skinny redhead as Hataru Umi, one Tomizawa-sama's  
  
favorites. That, however, did not stop the business-suited designer from  
  
grabbing the young woman's arm and pulling her into the "right" location  
  
on the runway. "Aino-san is going to end up RIGHT next to you on this   
  
run, Umi, which means you have to be PERFECTLY aligned. Otherwise, the  
  
girl will have nowhere to stand. Understand?"  
  
Umi nodded, frowning slightly. From her spot in the back of the  
  
room, Emi frowned, too. In all her experiences - small photo shoots for   
  
Tomizawa-sama's line of teen clothing and the occasional swimsuit ad - she  
  
had never worked directly with her stubborn, hot-headed boss. Sighing,   
  
Ai turned away from the runway-bound model and allowed her brown eyes   
  
to meet blue. "Emi-chan, there you are!" she announced, her tone nearly  
  
scolding. "I sent Hughes-san to hunt you down at least an hour ago! Where  
  
have you been?"  
  
Glancing at her shoes, the girl proceeded across the ballroom,   
  
zigzagging to avoid entanglements with half-finished decorations and   
  
other trappings of the show. "I needed to shower and change," she   
  
apologized, watching as Umi made a face and then stormed off. "It's   
  
raining out, and I was soaking wet."  
  
"Is it now?" The designer's gaze had dropped away from the   
  
teen's face and focused on the clipboard she was armed with, her dark   
  
eyes peering at sheets and numbers that Emi could hardly make out over  
  
the edge of the board, let alone comprehend. "Well, it's good you're   
  
finally here. The summit starts in two days, and you don't have half the  
  
training Michiko does." She sighed and shook her head, dropping her arms  
  
and allowing them to rest at her sides. "I told her three weeks ago to  
  
get this problem taken care of, and now she's under a doctor's order to   
  
wait until the morning sickness goes away to finally get rid of it." She  
  
shrugged. "Come on, I'll show you the dressing rooms and introduce you  
  
to the hairdressers." A quick once-over brought a sneer. "You'll need a   
  
trim on that hair of yours."  
  
The blonde nodded and followed obediently in her boss' footsteps,  
  
her eyes darting about in a feeble attempt to take in her surroundings. "Is  
  
Michiko-san alright?" she questioned carefully, ducking out of the way of  
  
two blue-jumpered men carrying long blocks of plywood. "She must be awfully  
  
ill to miss this event, and I'd hate to think that - "  
  
"Hai, hai, she's fine." Ai gave a brief wave of her free hand,   
  
dismissing the girl's concern as they pushed through a back door to the   
  
ballroom and came upon a small corridor with three or four attached rooms.  
  
"Just foolish, but she'll return to the circuit soon enough." She shouldered  
  
through one of the doors in the small hall, revealing a simple, nearly-  
  
empty room. Three girls, hardly older than Emi, glanced up from a glossy-  
  
paged magazine, staring intently at the dark-haired woman. "This is dressing  
  
room four, which you will be sharing with Sarah Morton, Josephina Martinez,  
  
Florinda Gambino, and our own Umi-chan." Without smiling, she glanced down   
  
at her watch. "We'll be running through the full show in street clothes   
  
within the hour," she informed all four of the models in English, scowling  
  
as she realized the three who had already been in the room had turned back  
  
to their magazine. "Emi-chan, I'll send in a crew member in about 10 minutes  
  
to double-check your measurements and get you to hairdresser." She frowned  
  
again at the mass of blonde waves that hung limply down the teen's back.  
  
"Ja."  
  
The door shut heavily behind her.  
  
As soon as Tomizawa-sama's presence disappeared from the room,   
  
one of the three girls flipped shut the magazine and slyly produced a   
  
packet of cigarettes from the neckline of her low-cut sweater. Brown eyes  
  
gleamed proudly as she flicked one from the packet and passed it on. "Make  
  
yourself comfortable," she instructed the gaping blonde in the doorway   
  
with a toss of her head. "You look like a statue, standing there and   
  
staring."  
  
"Oh, Florinda, be nice." Striking a match, the second girl - an   
  
impressively busty woman with heavily-layered blonde hair - sucked hard  
  
on her cigarette, exhaling heavily into the air. Her English was spoken   
  
deeply and with a hard-to-understand drawl that reminded Emi vaguely of her  
  
favorite American movie, "Gone with the Wind." "She's replacing that diva.  
  
What was her name again? Michelle or something?"  
  
"Michiko." Emi ignored the way her voice trembled as she drew one  
  
of the five chairs away from the vanity and pulled it into the center of  
  
the room to join the others. She hesitantly accepted a cigarette from the  
  
busty blonde. "She is very famous. You would be surprised."  
  
The third girl, with dark skin and darker hair and eyes, snorted  
  
quietly. "I don't think I would be surprised," she responded, tossing a   
  
lighter. The newcomer caught it cleanly. "I'm Josephina, but you can call me  
  
Jo if you want. I'm with the Spanish design group."  
  
Cigarette smoke wafted into the air, and Emi found herself   
  
struggling not to cough. And here, she had always wondered why her mother   
  
discouraged the habit. "Emi Aino," she introduced, flicking her ashes into  
  
a soda bottle as she watched the others doing. "From Tom - Ms. Tomizawa's  
  
group. There are four of us in all."  
  
"Yes, yes, we know," snorted Florinda, leaning back on her chair.  
  
"We've all met Umi. Tell me, are all Japanese models as self-possessed  
  
as Michiko and Umi? Because I am certainly unimpressed."  
  
Blue eyes widened, and Emi shook her head vehemently. "Iie, not  
  
at all!" she protested. "Umi and Michiko are the two most senior models in  
  
Ms. Tomizawa's agency. They are as popular as...what is her name? Cindy   
  
Crawford?"  
  
The busty one snorted. "Cindy Crawford ain't half the model I'm   
  
going to be!" she announced, her large chest bobbing as she sat up straight  
  
in her chair, chin high with pride. "Someday, people'll sit on their   
  
couches, eating their TV dinners, and - on commercials - discuss how   
  
beautiful the great Sarah Morton is!" Her two friends chuckled, and she   
  
scowled, slumping down in her seat. "Laugh all you want," she pouted,   
  
helping herself to a second cigarette. "You'll see."  
  
"The only work American models can become famous for is being on   
  
the cover of Playboy," snickered Josephina. She ducked as the half-empty  
  
packet of cigarettes flew towards her head, laughing aloud. "Sarah, I tease!  
  
I want to dance the Fandango in contests and model for billboards." Her dark  
  
eyes flitted towards Emi. "Do you have any high aspirations?"  
  
She frowned, shrinking a bit into her seat. "Honestly, I have not  
  
really thought about it," she admitted, the smoke curling slowly from the  
  
tip of her cigarette. She had not yet taken a second drag. "I only started  
  
modeling part-time to help my mother pay for the household expenses. I   
  
never thought I'd end up out here."  
  
"You're obviously doing something right," put in Florinda, raking  
  
a hand through her short tresses. "I would have loved to get this far   
  
without trying..."  
  
"No kidding." The other two nodded sagely.  
  
Emi opened her mouth to speak, but before any sound could escape,  
  
a light knock thumped against the door. The girls scrambled over themselves  
  
to extinguish their cigarettes and once again crack open the magazine,   
  
pouring over bright pictures that the newly-arrived model recognized as   
  
the center photography insert from the previous month's "Fashion World."   
  
"C'mon in!" called Sarah plainly, glancing up with feigned interest as   
  
the door cracked open.  
  
A dirty-faced, greasy-haired boy - most likely younger than any  
  
of the four girls in the room - grinned broadly at the models. Sarah   
  
snarled. "What, Peter?" she demanded in a low tone. "We're BUSY."  
  
Peter, as he had been called, continued to grin. "I'm here to get  
  
Miss Aino," he justified, his voice twanged with an indignant annoyance. "She's  
  
gotta get measured and then go for a haircut."  
  
Sarah muttered something nasty under her breath.  
  
Frowning, Emi gazed reluctantly at the trio, replacing her chair  
  
carefully beneath the vanity counter. What in the world had Florinda   
  
meant about not "trying"?   
  
But the greasy boy still hovered in the doorway, and so she shrugged  
  
and bid the others goodbye, slipping out the door and down the corridor.  
  
===  
  
Before she even knew what had happened, Emi found that she was   
  
swept into the glamour and lights of the modeling circuit, and, deep down,  
  
she realized that there would never be a real escape from it.   
  
The few final days before the beginning of the World Modeling   
  
Summit flew by, and the blonde teen found herself moving through life  
  
at such a pace that made her wonder if the world around her wasn't just   
  
one enormous blur. Practice sessions with Ai and the other models from her  
  
agency woke her up at dawn and kept her busy until the street lamps in  
  
front of the hotel flickered on. She was a caterpillar bursting forth   
  
from out her cocoon, spreading her colorful wings for everyone to see.   
  
Thanks to her boss' training and the aid of the other models at the   
  
show, she transformed from a girl who dangled her feet from the edge of a   
  
pool and smiled charmingly to a full-out diva. She fawned, she flaunted,  
  
she floated, flattered, and fluttered. She dazzled, she daunted, she   
  
delighted... She was everything that she had admired in Hiro Michiko  
  
and still more.   
  
But beyond the transformation in attitude came a transformation  
  
in appearance. Her previously "girlish" blonde waves - blunt-cut and waist-  
  
length - now bobbed just above her shoulders in curt little layers,   
  
highlighted slightly with reddish tints that shone under the lights of  
  
the ballroom's silver-carpeted runway. Tomizawa-sama - concerned that her  
  
junior model still thought of herself as a girl - had sent three beauticians  
  
to teach her the way of makeup, and now purple eye shadow highlighted large  
  
blue eyes. Her eyebrows had been shaped, her skin treated, her legs   
  
smoothed and waxed and smoothed again. Her legs, unfortunately, had not  
  
been the only part of her body to fall victim to the hot wax; as she   
  
lounged on the couch in Josephina's room and listened to one of Florinda's  
  
long and involved Mafia tails, she still swore that her armpits (and   
  
other, far more intimate areas) ached from that morning's "treatment."  
  
Her one relaxation and joy, Emi found, laid in spending time with  
  
the three girls she'd met so soon after her London debut. Umi considered  
  
herself exclusive to spend much time around four laughing, smoking   
  
teenagers, but Emi strived in the situation that her comrade so despised,  
  
and her time away from the runway and Tomizawa-sama was spent instead with  
  
the other three teens, smiling and sharing stories of life in their   
  
separate countries. No one mentioned or worried about the summit, at least  
  
not in a group; there were more important things to their young lives than  
  
modeling, after all.   
  
"So, now that I have degraded such high-class ladies with tales  
  
of the black sheep of my family, let's chat about something   
  
more...civilized." Florinda collapsed onto the couch beside the blonde,  
  
lighting a cigarette and, after a few drags, offering it forth. Emi   
  
accepted it and sucked hesitantly on it, forcing herself to bite back her   
  
cough; despite spending so much time with the others, she still wasn't  
  
quite used to the smell and taste of cigarette smoke. A small smirk began  
  
to touch the Italian's olive complexion as she settled into her seat,  
  
kicking her feet up on the coffee table. "Care to take bets on what   
  
big British agents will be at the opening tomorrow night to sweep up all  
  
the cute foreign girls?"  
  
No one noticed blue eyes blinking as Sarah glanced up from her  
  
battered romance novel, arching an eyebrow. "Really, Florinda," she   
  
scolded with an exaggerated wag of her finger, "you should know better. The  
  
agents usually come to the CLOSING, when the girls are so sick of their  
  
current agents and designers that working for Hitler sounds appealing."  
  
"Not Roger Hughes," chortled the would-be bookie, drawing three  
  
confused glances in her direction. "From what I've heard, he always comes  
  
to the openings and snatches up girls THEN. Young, fresh faces."  
  
"Hughes-san?" The Japanese honorific slipped from her tongue  
  
before she could stop it, and Emi flushed slightly, glancing at her   
  
lap. "I mean, uhm.... Mr. Hughes came to get me at the front desk when I   
  
first arrived here a few days ago." She looked up to find the three others  
  
staring. "Ms. Tomizawa sent him to... Is something wrong?"  
  
Sighing, Josephina flipped her long ponytail over her shoulder.  
  
"Nothing, for you," she mumbled dejectedly. "You've met one of the biggest  
  
names in the industry. He probably knows your name and everything!" She  
  
crossed her arms over her chest. "I wish Catalina had gotten sick and I   
  
could have come on as her replacement and met Roger Hughes!"  
  
"Jo," protested the blonde with a wave of her hand, "it's nothing.  
  
I'm just a silly junior model from Tokyo. After this event is over, I will  
  
get on a plane and go back to learning in high school. I'm not very good.  
  
Michiko and Umi and the other senior models will pat me on the back and  
  
tell me I was helpful before taking over the runway again." She shrugged,  
  
smiling slightly. "And I'll do like Mother says and attend nursing school."  
  
Sarah frowned, closing her book for the first time that evening.  
  
"Emi... Don't you want to be a model?" she questioned softly, her expression  
  
riddled with concern for her friend. "Isn't it your dream?"  
  
"Eeeh, I don't know if I have a real dream." All three of her  
  
friends were staring, and somehow, that made Emi immediately self-  
  
conscious; she toyed idly with a strand of hair that had slipped out of the  
  
blue ribbon that held back her tresses in a ponytail. "Modeling is just  
  
a job to help my mother pay for things. I never much expected it to go   
  
further than it already went. Being here is like a miracle!"  
  
The other girls fell silent for a long, long moment before anyone  
  
dared speak. And that someone came in the form of Florinda. She raked a   
  
hand through her short tresses, a soft smile touching her plump lips.   
  
"Emi, you're too innocent for this line of work," she chuckled, shaking  
  
her head. "But you will certainly make a charming nurse."  
  
Emi later regretted asking what her friend meant.  
  
===  
  
Her heart trembled in her chest, beating faster than a hummingbird  
  
flaps its wings, every beat short and surprisingly painful. She stared  
  
at her reflection in the mirror, her blue eyes roving over every inch  
  
of her body, tucking in a hair here and smoothing a fabric fold there; the  
  
only acceptable standard was perfection.  
  
The dress was elaborate, almost silly, but still beautiful, its  
  
orange muslin fabric and decorative navy-blue ribbons clashing and matching  
  
at the exact same time. Her hands trembled as she toyed with the end of a  
  
ribbon, her fingers smoothing over the intentionally frayed strand. Umi's  
  
dress would be similar, a red-on-blue ensemble that miraculously avoided  
  
clashing with her naturally bright red hair. She would start halfway down  
  
the runway, turn, and begin down again before the younger model was invited  
  
to join her, three steps behind and slightly to the right. Always behind.  
  
Always less, the junior, lagging.  
  
"Ms. Tomizawa wants you ready to go, Emi," called a voice, and she  
  
spun on her high-heeled foot to see Peter looming in the open doorway to  
  
the dressing room, his greasy hair slicked back and messy jumpsuit replaced  
  
with an equally-messy dress shirt and suit coat. Hoshi and Yumeko just   
  
started their run."  
  
She nodded, glancing back in the mirror. One more strand to tuck up,  
  
one more slight smear of base to even out with a hasty forefinger. Her   
  
heels clicked on the stone floor of the small corridor as she slipped  
  
through the shadows and towards the stage. A black curtain, thick and   
  
flowing, hid the backstage models and designers from the crowd of agents,  
  
designers, and photographers attending the summit. The presence of the  
  
crowd, however, overwhelmed. Emi heard every click of a shutter on a   
  
camera, every whispered comment, every polite clap. Even with the upbeat  
  
techno music that served as a background to every step, she could hear it.  
  
The air was heavy with the presence of bodies, the heat of the onlookers.  
  
She joined Umi reluctantly, hesitant, her palms slick with sweat.   
  
'Count yourself lucky, Emi-chan,' Tomizawa had warned her only   
  
moments before shooing the girl off to get dressed for her debut, her   
  
eyes buried in her clipboard, studying something unseen. 'This summit  
  
was created for designers and their senior staff models. You're seventeen,  
  
still in high school, part time... You're very lucky to be here.' She   
  
glanced up, dark gaze sharp. 'Ganbatte yo, Emi-chan. I am expecting the  
  
best from you.'  
  
The best. Applause boomed in her ears as Hoshi and Yumeko appeared  
  
backstage, both beaming and shooting one another proud looks. The stage  
  
manager gave Umi a nod and, before Emi could even draw in a nervous,   
  
shaking breath, her head of red hair disappeared out of sight. Applause  
  
boomed, shutters snapped, and her stomach knotted. The steps counted  
  
out in her mind, perfectly timed... Seven, eight... Turn for three...  
  
Four towards the stage...  
  
Her feet moved without thought. The runway carpet cushioned every  
  
familiar, trained step of her high-heeled shoes as she appeared in public  
  
view for the first time. Four days of drilling, practicing, perfection...  
  
Every word from Ai's mouth echoed in her head, every step fell just as   
  
it should, everything was perfect.  
  
Blue eyes recognized, yes, that there were people cluttering the  
  
risers and stuffing the ballroom, but then recognized the fact with a   
  
calm demeanor, every sweeping glance of the crowd as fluid as her   
  
long, brisk strides down the runway. Her ears registered the noise of  
  
the techno track, the applause, the camera's shutters, the mutters of  
  
the agents sitting nearest the stage, but her mind refused to process  
  
them. She was focused, poised, ready for anything.  
  
Anyone besides the single-minded model would have noticed a man   
  
in the front row, furiously scribbling notes on a clipboard as Emi arrived  
  
at the end of the runway. They would have noticed his slightly-graying  
  
brown hair and goatee, his chic, dark-rimmed glasses and fitted gray   
  
suit. They would have noticed the careful once-over his navy blue eyes   
  
gave her, and the tender smile that touched his lips as she started down  
  
the runway towards the stage.  
  
But Emi Aino didn't see him, and it didn't matter. Because, while   
  
she didn't see him scribbling and studying her, he didn't see HER go   
  
running into her dressing room and, once she arrived, screaming at the   
  
top of her lungs three fateful words:  
  
"I DID IT!"  
  
===  
  
The backstage and corridor was a hub of bustling activity by time  
  
that evening's show was ever, and Emi found herself trying to shoulder   
  
through designers, models, and members of the media in a feeble attempt  
  
to go to her room and to bed. No one noticed a five-foot-six blonde teen  
  
with a ponytail, however, and none of the exclamations of "Fabulous!"  
  
were aimed in her direction. She sighed as she finally squeezed through the  
  
sardine-packed hall and turned to stare back at the crowd, a lone figure   
  
standing on the steps up to the stage.   
  
She shrugged. "I'm a junior model," she reminded herself sternly,  
  
straightening her shirt before hopping down the stairs the rest of the way.  
  
"I'm going back to Japan without anyone knowing my name. That's the way its  
  
SUPPOSED to be."  
  
The lobby of the Ritz stood ominously empty, the fountain's   
  
whisper soothing to her tired ears. She wandered slowly through the plush  
  
area, running her fingers on leather couches and dark, rich wooden tables,  
  
toying with a leaf here or a flower there. Finally, she came to the   
  
fountain itself, a small, round spraying of cool water that tickled  
  
her hand as she reached out to touch it. She smiled.   
  
"Miss Aino." The accent was heavy and, from what she knew of   
  
accents, typical of a London-dweller, and she turned around to see a man  
  
in a chic gray suit standing behind her, smiling. She, however, frowned,  
  
arching an eyebrow. "You must not remember me. Roger Hughes desu." His  
  
eyes twinkled as he switched to her native tongue, warm and proud, as though  
  
they were sharing a special secret.  
  
"Ah! Gomen nasai!" She bowed quickly, realizing only after that  
  
she'd fallen into the old familiar pleasantries of her native land. She   
  
flushed. "I mean, ano... It is nice to see you again." Her mouth stumbled  
  
over the words but managed to pronounce them clearly; even after four days  
  
in the country, she was learning. "Did you enjoy the show this evening?"  
  
"Very much, thank you," he nodded. Emi nodded as well and turned  
  
back away, her fingers flitting over and through the fountain water. "Do  
  
you like it?"  
  
She blinked, glancing up at him. "Like what?" Roger smirked and   
  
gestured towards the fountain, and she felt her cheeks warm again as she  
  
nodded her assertion. "It's very pretty."  
  
Before she could say anything else on the matter, however, her   
  
companion was digging through his pockets, smiling slightly. The tell-tale  
  
jingle of keys and change sounded as he finally removed his hands and   
  
produced a small copper coin. "It's called a penny," he explained, offering  
  
it to her. "There is an old legend that states that throwing a coin into  
  
a fountain and wishing on it will make that wish come true." She glanced  
  
away from him and down, noticing for the first time that the mosaic-tiled floor  
  
of the fountain glimmered from a handful of coins resting there. "Why don't  
  
you try it, hmm?"  
  
Smiling slightly, she accepted the coin, her blue eyes studying his  
  
face. A kind expression shone down at her. It was almost as foreign to her  
  
as his clumsy Japanese was to him; Tomizawa-sama and the other models from  
  
her group always scowled and scolded, never beaming in the sweet way that  
  
Roger managed to. The coin flashed in the lobby lights as she stared  
  
down at it. What could she wish for?  
  
Her friends' words echoed half-heartedly in the back of her mind,  
  
cluttering her thoughts. 'Emi... Don't you want to be a model? Isn't it   
  
your dream?'   
  
"Well, I need to be going," Roger addressed her, stumbling briefly  
  
over the Japanese words. A hand clapped her shoulder, friendly to the   
  
point of being almost fatherly. "I'll see you in Ms. Tomizawa's other   
  
showings, I'm most certain. So long!"  
  
She watched him leave, trotting down the hallway with his clipboard  
  
still in hand. Roger Hughes. One of the most well-known names in the   
  
industry, and - if she was to believe the rumors - extremely exclusive.  
  
'He probably knows your name and everything!' Jo had exclaimed the night  
  
before, thick ponytail bobbing. But she was a junior model... A future  
  
nursing student... Not...  
  
The coin sparkled in the palm of her hand.  
  
'Isn't it your dream?'  
  
Emi wondered if she even had a dream as she pocketed the coin and  
  
started back towards her room, the fountain whispering behind her, the  
  
sound comforting even as it faded out of range.  
  
===  
  
"Okaa-san, please!" Emi fell back on her bed, laughing, as her   
  
mother continued to bemoan the amount of housework that she was stuck   
  
doing on her own. The familiar voice in her ear was broken occasionally  
  
by static, but otherwise, she counted the sound as a small blessing,   
  
something familiar in a foreign world.  
  
Five days had passed since the beginning of the summit, and there  
  
had been no word from any of the local agencies about contract bids. The   
  
agents present at the summit - Tomizawa Ai had estimated that there were  
  
a total of fifteen independent agents coming nightly, with another thirty  
  
or thirty-five who had come once or twice - appeared wholly uninterested in  
  
the models that walked the runway every night, and, despite high reviews  
  
in the newspapers, the World Design Summit seemed to only hold value for  
  
the designers, rather than their models. Emi chewed thoughtfully on a   
  
carrot stick as her mother rambled on in her ear. Just as she told the  
  
others time and again, she was simply a junior model, a Japanese high   
  
school student who would have three weeks in the sun before being forgotten.  
  
She settled into her pillows with a sigh. Perhaps her low hopes had still  
  
be too high, after all.  
  
"So, Emi-ko, tell me," her mother pressed, the tone that signified  
  
an oncoming prying session suddenly pervading her tone, "are all those   
  
agents out there falling over you, yet?"   
  
Sighing, Emi rolled her eyes up at the canopy that stretched above  
  
her. "Okaa-san..." she sighed, tucking her free hand behind her head. "You  
  
know that I'm only here as Michiko's replacement. In a few weeks, I'll   
  
be home and life will be the same as always. There are no agents interested  
  
in a seventeen-year-old Japanese girl."  
  
"Nonsense!" protested Natsumi so loudly that her daughter had to  
  
pull the receiver away from her ear to prevent permanent hearing loss.  
  
"You are beginning your first steps towards the life of a model! I believe  
  
firmly in you reaching out and becoming a real model. The next Hiro Michiko!"  
  
In her hotel room bed, half a world away, the blonde teen curled  
  
up in a ball, picking the lint from her pajama pants as she allowed her   
  
mother's excitement to die down. "Please, Mama," she insisted, dropping the  
  
more mature, honorific name for her mother. "I'm just a girl. I'm still  
  
in high school, and I'm certainly the farthest thing from Michiko that  
  
the world has to offer." She rolled onto her back again, sighing heavily.  
  
"Truth is, all the girls here... For them, this is their dream. For me,  
  
it's just a part-time job."  
  
Her mother started to say something, but as she did, a knock at  
  
the door cut her off. "Hang on, okaa-san," Emi interjected, relieved that  
  
she could break away from the inevitable rant about believing in herself.  
  
"There's someone at the door."   
  
Not three seconds after she said this, phone sitting on the   
  
comforter and her feet dangling over the edge of the bed in preparation to  
  
slide on her slippers and answer the door that the door flew open and   
  
Umi, clad in a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt, entered, her bright  
  
eyes lowered dangerously. "Tomizawa-sama asked me to give you a message,"  
  
she shot, "and - since I'm on the way down to the gym - I really don't  
  
have time to wait for you and give it to you at your leisure." She flipped  
  
her ponytail smugly. "Tomizawa-sama wants to see you in her room tomorrow  
  
morning BEFORE we run rehearsal. Understand?"  
  
"Hai, Umi," she sighed. The redhead's dark eyes flashed, and she  
  
flinched. "Umi-san," she corrected herself quickly, not surprised when  
  
the older female stormed out of the door, slamming it hard behind her.  
  
Emi grimaced as she picked up the phone, apologizing to her mother and  
  
completely unsurprised when the immediate question greeted her:  
  
"Who was that?"  
  
"Oh, just Umi," she replied causally, twirling the phone cord   
  
between her fingers distractedly. "Ms. Tomizawa wants to see me in the   
  
morning, and I guess that Umi was sent as the messenger."  
  
Her mother chuckled, her laugh sweet and clear across the telephone  
  
lines. "Whatever happened to 'Umi-san' and 'Tomizawa-sensei'?" she asked  
  
teasingly, causing Emi to redden slightly. "You are certainly becoming  
  
very English, even if you are still speaking Japanese."  
  
"Well, the other girls all speak very good English," she explained,  
  
pursing her lips together, "and they don't know or understand why we use  
  
the titles the way we do. Besides, isn't there a popular saying that   
  
states, 'When in Rome, do not go against the wishes of the Romans'?"  
  
"If there is, I have never heard it," her mother replied, her tone  
  
riddled with confusion. "And I'm only teasing, Emi-ko. I think it's good  
  
that you're trying to act like the other girls." She paused for a moment,  
  
a heavy but companionable silence overtaking the airwaves.  
  
Staring into the half-open bathroom, the blonde girl leaned back  
  
on her elbows. What in the world could Tomizawa-sama want with her,   
  
especially before rehearsal in the morning?   
  
Not that the question she was busily asking herself mattered too  
  
much, because it was then that her mother started talking once again,   
  
chattering pleasantly about the happenings at her office and leaving   
  
Emi no choice but to ball up on the comforter and listen to the soothing  
  
tones of her mother's voice until late into the night.  
  
===  
  
The next morning came only after a night of fretful, broken sleep,  
  
and every time Emi woke up the only thing she could think of was her mother's  
  
familiar voice and heartfelt good wishes. She missed the old trappings of  
  
home - the bed, the wood floors, the homemade, authentic Japanese dishes -  
  
but, at the same time, she reveled in the feel of the strange, soft   
  
sheets against her legs, the canopy above her head, and the soft sunlight  
  
that glimmered through the half-translucent draperies and into her hotel  
  
room. She dragged herself out of bed, going through the motions as she   
  
did every morning - shower, dry hair, do makeup, get dressed, have a cup of  
  
coffee with a quick cigarette (a tried-and-true wake-up method that Sarah  
  
had taught her) - before locking up, slipping on her World Design Summit  
  
identification badge, and riding up the elevator to Tomizawa-sama's eighth  
  
floor room. Here, the hallway was a bit more narrow but the doors spread  
  
further apart, signifying that there were fewer, larger rooms. She wandered  
  
amongst the rows of closed doors for several minutes before she was able  
  
to find her employer's, her heart fluttering in her stomach. Why in the world  
  
was she so nervous, anyway?  
  
"Hai!" called Tomizawa Ai's strong voice, and, despite the gnawing  
  
feeling in her gut, the blonde girl opened the door to her boss' hotel  
  
room.  
  
Her jaw nearly dropped.  
  
The front room held no bed at all; rather, it was home to a desk,  
  
couch, mirrored dresser, television chest, and a truly enormous marble  
  
fireplace. Everything in the room declared boldly that this room belonged  
  
to someone important - from the rich golds, blues, and pinks of the   
  
fabric decorating the draperies and couches to the subtle, pale-yellow  
  
color of the wallpaper, the room was truly exquisite. A half-opened door  
  
at the other end of the sitting room revealed the bedroom of the suite,   
  
and - despite the fact that Emi could only see the end of the bed and   
  
what appeared to be another enormous marble fireplace - the bedroom   
  
obviously challenged its sitting-room partner in elegance and taste.  
  
Waving a hand at the girl, Ai - seated on the couch in a robe   
  
with a 'Ritz Hotel' emblem embroidered on the front and curlers still in  
  
her long hair - shouldered the phone as she dashed something down on a   
  
piece of paper. "That is entirely too much money," she argued in crisp,  
  
clear English, her dark eyes meeting her employee's before rolling  
  
back, as if to say, 'I have had well enough of this call.' "No. That is  
  
my final answer. Yes, you do that. Goodbye."  
  
She set the phone back into the cradle gracefully, all signs of   
  
exasperation draining from her smooth, tan complexion as she leaned back  
  
into the couch. She sighed heavily. "Gomen nasai, Emi-chan," she apologized,  
  
her native language rolling off her lips as easily as the English did. "I  
  
didn't realize that American ad companies were such money-grubbers. Next  
  
time, I look elsewhere."  
  
"H-hai," the girl stammered, crossing and uncrossing her legs at  
  
the ankles as she watched her employer take a long swig of coffee from a  
  
Ritz Hotel coffee mug. The entire situation smacked of a strange dream or  
  
a scene from a television movie; the tale of the junior model who, barely   
  
recognizing her boss' face, ended up sitting in an armchair in her   
  
enormous hotel suite, listening to her prattle on about American   
  
business or something else of the sort. "Ano... Umi-san said you wanted  
  
to talk to me about something?"  
  
Nodding, Ai leaned forward and, from a stack of papers on the coffee  
  
table, withdrew a stapled stack of pages. She handed them to the blonde  
  
girl. "Now, I know that you're still working with your English," she   
  
explained, leaning back into the couch cushions as she spoke, "so I'm going  
  
to explain this to you before you get called by some bumbling secretary   
  
who doesn't realize 'Aino Emi' is a Japanese name. Do you know what that  
  
sheet of paper is, Emi-chan?"  
  
For a moment, Emi considered lying and claiming that she knew,   
  
uncertain of whether or not her ignorance would be looked down upon. But  
  
the designer's dark eyes focused sharply on her, so she shook her head  
  
of wavy hair. "No."  
  
"I didn't think you did." The coffee cup thumped dully on the   
  
marble-topped coffee table as she set it down. "This is what we in the   
  
modeling world call a contract bid, Emi. When an agent is interested in a   
  
model, he or she will place a bid on the model. The model's current agent  
  
can, then, offer that model more money to keep them there. Otherwise, that  
  
model is free to accept the bid if they so choose. Do you understand?"  
  
The teen nodded dully, staring, uncomprehending, at the strange   
  
English characters on the page.  
  
"Normally, agents will wait until the end of events like this one  
  
to put in a bid, but not this time." She sighed, chuckling slightly. "I have  
  
to admit, for all the rumors that he does not hold up to, Roger Hughes   
  
really is about as straight-forward and go-getting as an agent can get. I   
  
respect that about him. I respect a great deal about him, actually. Which  
  
is why I didn't respond to this bid as badly as many of the other agents  
  
and designers would have."  
  
Blue eyes blinked. "Nani?" questioned Emi after a long moment's  
  
pause, her eyebrows pulling close together as she creased her brow in   
  
thought. "What do you mean?"  
  
Ai smiled softly. "Emi-chan, I am not planning on taking in any   
  
more senior models any time soon," she continued on, almost as if the   
  
girl had never asked the question. "And, even if I did, I don't think   
  
you would be the one I would choose. You are good, but you're still...raw.  
  
Untrained. A few years ago, I took a girl like you under my wing. And yes,  
  
she became wonderful, but with the amount of design I do now, I no longer  
  
have the time and energy to devote to teaching a new model."  
  
The blonde nodded weakly, setting the contract bid down on the table.  
  
"I understand completely," she admitted, straightening her spine as she  
  
shifted her weight in the armchair. Her heart ached and her hands trembled  
  
in her lap, but she could not place why. "I am, after all, just a high school  
  
girl. I model to help my mother pay for my expensive schooling. I - "  
  
"You'd like to think that, Emi, but that's just not true." Ai's  
  
voice was compassionate, touched with affection that could almost be   
  
counted as motherly as she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. The  
  
air in the room suddenly jumped from business-like to companionable, and  
  
Emi found herself unable to hide her surprise. "You are far more graceful  
  
and poised than Michiko was when I took her under my wing, five years ago,  
  
and started training her as a senior model. You have everything that it   
  
takes, but I do not have the capability of cultivating that in you. That is  
  
why I called you here." Once again, she reached for the stapled papers,  
  
handing them to her model. "This is a contract bid for you, Emi-chan.   
  
From Roger Hughes' agency. It's a relatively large agency, with much   
  
room for growth and improvement, and you can receive the attention you   
  
deserve, there." She sat back up on the couch, her arms stretched wide  
  
along the back of it. "You can be Michiko, Emi. You can be BIGGER than   
  
Michiko. It just depends on if you want to or not." Her long fingernails   
  
drummed into the upholstery in what the wide-eyed teen assumed to be an   
  
offhanded impatience, her dark eyes fixated on a pale, confusion-torn face.  
  
"So, Emi-chan, what is it you want?"  
  
Her mouth opened and then shut again, pink lips forming neither a   
  
smile nor a frown but rather a thin, tight line cutting across her soft  
  
cheeks. Silence swept across the room as she stared at her hands, neatly   
  
folded in her lap, and considered the designer's words. Bigger than Hiro   
  
Michiko? Was that even possible? And if it was, could she really carry such  
  
a bright torch?  
  
"I - I really don't know, Tomizawa-sama," she answered after a long  
  
moment, her baby blue eyes meeting dark brown in a powerful gaze. Somehow,  
  
the compassion in her boss' expression surprised her, and she had to smile  
  
politely to avoid looking altogether shocked. "Can I... Can I think about   
  
this for a bit? Please?"  
  
Ai waved a hand casually. "I'm not the one you have to answer to,"  
  
she replied with a half-shrug, once again opting for her coffee as she  
  
spoke. "If I know Hughes-san - and I do - he'll be contacting you soon  
  
enough. You'll have to take that up with him."  
  
She nodded and bowed, walking herself to the door and letting herself  
  
out before she even realized that she'd failed to say goodbye. Once the door  
  
closed softly behind her and she was left to the empty, quiet corridor, she  
  
sighed, leaning against the wall.   
  
Maybe Tomizawa-sama was wrong. Yes, yes, that was it. Tomizawa-sama  
  
had heard the wrong name, read the wrong contract, or...  
  
...or it really was her contract.  
  
Her eyes lulled shut.  
  
It couldn't it?  
  
===  
  
The multicolored lights flickered and shifted from side to side,  
  
a rainbow spectrum against black-painted cinderblock walls and a sea of   
  
pale European bodies as she struggled through the crowd, the deep bass line  
  
of a popular techno track rattling her teeth in the back of her mouth. A   
  
drunken young man grabbed her posterior hard, the square fingers biting   
  
through her short nylon skirt and into her skin. She ignored it, elbowing  
  
aside a couple who were too busy dirty dancing to notice her and, with a   
  
groan of effort, freed herself from the tangle of people on the dance floor,  
  
followed closely by her three friends. They exchanged glances of exasperation  
  
before sighing in unison and throwing up their hands.  
  
Emi collapsed onto one of the several empty stools that lined the   
  
long, black-painted bar that stretched along one of the walls and,   
  
unhesitatingly, flagged the black-garbed bartender and ordered a club soda.  
  
Behind her, the throng of dancers, all visitors to London's premiere   
  
nightclub, pulsed to the beat, bumping and grinding as the techno track   
  
wore on. "Some reward for the end of our second week," she mumbled to   
  
herself as she flicked a cigarette out of the half-empty pack she kept   
  
tucked in the top of her knee-high boots and lighting it hastily. "I have  
  
a splitting headache..."  
  
"What was that?" She blinked and gave a start as Sarah leaned  
  
forward and snatched the pack of cigarettes from her grip. Her large   
  
breasts nearly bounced right out of her low-cut green-sequined tank, and she  
  
tugged idly at the neckline as she, too, struck a match. "Somethin' wrong?"  
  
"Nothing..." The younger blonde shrugged and glanced away, barely  
  
noticing as the bartender set her glass down in front of her. Her fingers  
  
squeezed the bridge of her nose softly, her eyes watering from the throbbing  
  
pain in her head. "I just have a headache."  
  
Florinda chuckled, leaning an elbow on the bar. Her short hair   
  
sparkled in the ever-moving spectrum of colored light as she rested her   
  
chin in her hand. "I'm not surprised," she retorted, her red-painted lips  
  
curving into an almost vicious smile. "You've been working three times harder  
  
than any of us. You'd think that Tomizawa was trying to drive you into the  
  
ground like a stake or something!"  
  
Laughing, Emi shook her head and took a long drag of her cigarette.  
  
As much as the teasing could be counted only as meaningless chatter, the  
  
Italian did have a point. Since calling her up to the eighth floor to   
  
discuss the supposed contract bid from Roger Hughes, Ai had spent countless  
  
hours with all four of her models, running their order and steps again and  
  
again until every step was perfectly measured out and every turn a brief  
  
but amazing bolt of inspired motion. "Eh, she just wants us to look good  
  
for the next few nights," she shrugged, stirring her drink idly with the   
  
cherry-topped toothpick that had been dropped into it. "A lot of the   
  
Western designers are really starting to pay attention to her, so she wants  
  
Umi, Yumeko, Hoshi and I to be absolutely flawless."  
  
"Well, from what I've heard here and there, you are already pretty  
  
flawless." Jo's dark eyes flashed as she innocently drummed her deep blue  
  
fingernails on the bar top. "The other girls in my troupe are all abuzz   
  
with the news that a Miss Emi Aino is on Roger Hughes' bid list."  
  
"What?!" Sarah's chest heaved another time as she nearly tumbled  
  
off her stool. A long stream of smoke snorted out her nose as she hacked  
  
and struggled to breathe. "Emi, are you kidding me? Why didn't you tell us?!"  
  
The Japanese girl felt her cheeks redden and her eyes drop to focus  
  
on the ever-bubbling liquid in her smudged, chipped bar glass. "I think it's  
  
probably just a rumor," she responded half-heartedly. Her blonde waves  
  
bobbed as flipped them and the many orange ribbons she had tied into them  
  
over her shoulder. "And besides, I think I'm going to turn down an offer  
  
if I do get it. I'm not even done with high school, you know, and to be   
  
a full-time model all the way here, in England... That's an undertaking   
  
that I don't know if I'm ready for."  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see both Jo and Sarah nodding  
  
thoughtfully, but it was the ever-passionate Florinda who responded with   
  
the most fury, slamming her fist onto the bar and rattling their glasses.  
  
"Emi!" she scolded, her tone high and stressed. "What are you thinking?"  
  
The busty American bit her lip. "Florinda..." she warned, coolly.  
  
"You might get a chance to live a DREAM, and you say no?" Brown  
  
eyes rolled as she crossed her arms over her purple peasant-style blouse.  
  
"This is something all of us have wanted since we were little girls, Emi.  
  
A dream that we've grown up with. A dream to be graceful and famous...and  
  
beautiful. And you're going to throw it away because you're not quite  
  
sure? You're going to give that up? Why did you come, then, if you're not  
  
going to take the one opportunity you're given?"  
  
Emi attempted to protest, but her friend waved the comment away,  
  
disappearing into the crowd before the clumsy English words sprang to her   
  
befuddled mind. Her shoulders slumped as she watched Florinda's sleek   
  
body fade into the sea of strangers, another tan-tinted fleck against the  
  
flickering lights.  
  
"Florinda means well," sighed Sarah, her hand landing, reassuringly,  
  
on the smaller girl's shoulder. She smiled softly as blue eyes peered up  
  
at her, tears shining in the ever-moving lights of the dance floor. "She's  
  
fought a long battle to get here, and so it's hard for her. But Emi, you   
  
can't always fall back on the fact that you're still in high school, and   
  
an 'average girl.'" The hand on her shoulder contracted, tightening in a   
  
friendly squeeze. "If you want it, Emi, then do it. It's your life, and   
  
it's your dream. Or maybe it's not your dream. That's not for me to say. But  
  
if it IS your dream, and what you want to do, then no one can take that  
  
away from you." She leaned over and rested her head lightly against her   
  
friend's head. "And if you do want it, then live it."  
  
The Japanese girl nodded slightly, and tried hard to smile. But  
  
somehow, with the throbbing in her head and the throbbing of the music  
  
around her, the only reaction she could produce was a weak, hopeless sigh.  
  
===  
  
"Mr. Hughes will see you in a few moments." The secretary was a   
  
small, dark-haired woman with a large nose and thick glasses that magnified  
  
her equally dark eyes to twice their normal sizes. Still, despite all this,  
  
her voice sang, sweet and soothing, and her small hands gestured towards  
  
the few waiting-room style couches with the same grace as a princess would  
  
demonstrate while gesturing to her visitors. "Feel free to make yourself  
  
at home. There's coffee in the back room, if you're interested."  
  
"Thank you." Aino Emi struggled to resist her customary urge to bow  
  
her thanks towards the strange secretary and turned slowly, marveling in her  
  
surroundings. Somehow, coming home to a telephone message requesting her   
  
presence at a meeting with Roger Hughes had been expected, unimpressive.  
  
But his offices, with their magnificent, wine-colored carpets and large,  
  
black-and-white photos of models striking poses, were an entirely different  
  
story.  
  
Not that it mattered. The blonde selected, carefully, a small   
  
white armchair nestled in a corner, beside a small coffee table and a large  
  
floor lamp. She glanced dully at the magazines that cluttered the table -   
  
Cosmopolitan, Redbook, People, and Seventeen - and selected the final title  
  
with an ironic smirk. The bright pink cover contrasted greatly with the  
  
navy blue business suit that Sarah had practically thrown in her direction  
  
the night before, and, as she paged through it with a nominal amount of   
  
interest, she wondered exactly what the point of all the pomp and   
  
circumstance was. She'd decided, after all, that the answer would be "no."  
  
She hadn't told Sarah, of course, not even as the taller, bustier  
  
blonde had dragged her across the Ritz that morning, introducing her to   
  
various models - American, Polish, Russian, German, Argentinean, Chinese -   
  
and then proceeded to dig through their wardrobes. There was no reason to   
  
pop the American's fantasies, and so she went through the routine of   
  
feigning genuine excitement, raising her arms and faux-modeling skirts  
  
and blouses until one of Sarah's own outfits had been deemed worthy of   
  
being "the ensemble that the great Emi Aino wore the day she became a   
  
real, full-time model."   
  
The English words on the glossy magazine pages swam about in her  
  
head, mixing with the familiar Japanese words that had clogged her every  
  
thought since she'd heard the secretary's sing-song voice the night before.  
  
Modeling. Dreams. Hopes. Fears. Okaa-san. Seventeen. Fame. Fortune. High  
  
school. Nursing school. Roger Hughes. Life. Living. Frustrated, she tossed  
  
the magazine back down on the tabletop. The answer was no. No. N -   
  
"Aino-san?"  
  
A low, gentle voice speaking her native tongue caused her to   
  
start, and she whipped her head around to see Roger Hughes himself standing  
  
beside her, one hand resting on the back of her armchair. His well-tailored  
  
suit - navy blue, reflected Emi with a slight blush - complemented his   
  
adult-but-not-old form as he leaned forward to shake her hand. "I'm sorry  
  
about that. I had to take a personal call."   
  
She nodded slightly, following him towards his half-closed office  
  
door so closely that she feared she would inadvertently step on the back  
  
of his shoes. "And, by the way, I like your suit," he smirked, glancing back  
  
at her just long enough to wink a blue eye. She flushed, muttering something  
  
about borrowing it from a friend, certain that he didn't hear.  
  
Roger Hughes' personal office was actually quite bare when compared  
  
to his posh waiting room. Decorated with only a few small photographs of   
  
young women dressed in casual clothes and casual poses, it felt more like  
  
a personal den in a home than a business office, with simple furniture,   
  
a few sparse bookshelves, and two small armchairs. Emi attempted to settle  
  
into one of the chairs but found her ease only tentative, her spine   
  
straightening stiffly. The blond man, on the contrary, sat down on the   
  
front edge of the desk, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he   
  
glanced down at her - pale-faced, straight-backed, and staring.  
  
"You're terrified, aren't you?" The question, spoken in English  
  
and asked quite plainly, caught her off guard, and she blinked. Roger   
  
chuckled slightly, shaking his head. "I have to compliment you, Emi. The  
  
entire time you've been here in London, you have handled yourself very  
  
well. I've been at all the nightly shows, and every night, you walk up and  
  
down that runway without even an inkling of fear. It makes me wonder if you  
  
even know what stage fright is."  
  
He crossed his legs at the ankles, an almost painfully casual foil  
  
to her proper posture and folded hands. "But I see it now," he continued,  
  
nodding in her direction. "The straight back, the pale face, the darting  
  
gaze. You're really scared. And I respect that more, I think, than any amount  
  
of bravado."  
  
The gentle spell that was his friendly tone shattered as he reached  
  
behind him into a stack of papers and drew out a thick, stapled packet,  
  
offering it forward. She accepted it gently, flinching as her eyes fell on  
  
the words at the top of the page; they were exactly the same as the ones on  
  
the page that Tomizawa-sama had handed her, four days earlier. "I have   
  
Ms. Tomizawa a copy of this so she could review it with you," he explained,  
  
helping himself to a second packet of the same sheets. "I don't think I need  
  
to repeat that this is a contract bid, so I won't. I just want to explain  
  
why."  
  
"Why?" she echoed, her voice shockingly loud in the bare office.  
  
"But... Why would you want to explain yourself?"  
  
"Everyone deserves an explanation," he smiled in response,   
  
shrugging. "I wouldn't sign a contract if I didn't know why someone wanted  
  
me to, and I'm giving you the same courtesy I would expect. I'm a bit old-  
  
fashioned in that respect, you could say." His large fingers flipped idly  
  
through his copy of the contract as he spoke, but his dark eyes never left  
  
her face, not even as she glanced away and shifted her attention onto the  
  
floor. "The truth is, Aino-san, that I want younger, fresher models here at   
  
my agency. It's all well and good to have old pros, people like   
  
Tomizawa-sama's famous Michiko, but it's time that the industry integrated   
  
some new faces into the mix." He tossed the papers onto the top of the   
  
stack behind him. "You're good. I don't know if you realize it or not, but   
  
you have everything I've been looking for in a new model. And I know asking  
  
you to leave Japan and your old job is a big request, but I really want to   
  
see you go further than being a junior model for a designer who doubles as   
  
an agent." She flinched slightly, but Roger didn't seem to notice. "I want  
  
to see you be the next Michiko."  
  
Emi's heart shuddered in her chest as, slowly, she raised her head,  
  
her vision shifting from her high-heeled shoes and climbing up, up Roger's  
  
long legs and flat chest until she came to meet his face. The fatherly   
  
smile she had first more than two weeks earlier, when he'd rushed down   
  
the hallway, calling out her name. Even through his glasses, his eyes were  
  
bright, supportive, and somehow, she knew that - whatever she chose - he  
  
would understand and be supportive. Whatever she chose, he would accept as  
  
the final word and send her on her path.  
  
Her path. The path that had lead her to the Ritz hotel, to London,  
  
away from her home...   
  
'You can be Michiko, Emi. You can be BIGGER than Michiko.'  
  
Aino Emi. Seventeen years old. A third-year high school student. High  
  
aspirations to attend nursing school as her mother had. A junior model   
  
for Tomizawa Ai's design agency. Slated to, someday in the future, marry a   
  
salary man and pop out a few children.  
  
'A dream to be graceful and famous...and beautiful. And you're going  
  
to throw it away because you're not quite sure? You're going to give that   
  
up? Why did you come, then, if you're not going to take the one opportunity   
  
you're given?'  
  
A girl without a dream. She dropped her eyes, staring at the words  
  
and phrases in front of her on the contract, words and phrases in a foreign  
  
language that she could hardly speak, let alone read. Words and phrases  
  
that meant so very little, and yet still meant so much.  
  
'It's your life, and it's your dream. Or maybe it's not your dream.   
  
That's not for me to say. But if it IS your dream, and what you want to do,   
  
then no one can take that away from you.'   
  
Sarah's dream. Florinda's dream. Jo's dream. Everyone's dreams.  
  
'And if you do want it, then live it.'  
  
Aino Emi's head popped up and blue eyes shone as she smiled, the same  
  
brilliant smile that had overtaken her face weeks ago when she'd first   
  
arrived in the strange and wonderful city of London, England.  
  
"As they say in our industry," she replied cheerily, the English  
  
words rolling off her tongue slowly, but accurately, "where do I sign?"  
  
DISCLAIMER: Sailor Moon and all trappings thereof belong to Naoko   
  
Takeuchi. This particular storyline belongs to Kate Butler, (c) 2003-2004. 


End file.
